


It's Joggers Season (or so the Muggles say)

by carpemermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Bets & Wagers, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Growing Up, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hung Harry Potter, Joggers, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Patronus, Person of Color Harry Potter, Pining, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Sexual Inexperience, Sharing Clothes, Studying, Wandless Magic, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 23:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12178581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/pseuds/carpemermaid
Summary: Everything about Draco’s life since May has been one bloody long exercise in subverting everything he’s known, that’s expected of him, in an effort to get as far away from the mistakes he’s made—the wrong choices he was forced into. He’s returned to Hogwarts to take his N.E.W.T.s and everything is different—namely, Harry Potter strutting around in clingy joggers that Draco can’t get off his mind.





	It's Joggers Season (or so the Muggles say)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the inaugural [cocksandjoggers mini fest](http://cocksandjoggers.livejournal.com/)!
> 
> While writing this, it developed its own plot and decided it didn’t want to be _just_ a fun romp about Harry looking hot in joggers. Everyone decided to bring their feeling along for the ride, too. Thank you to the Drarry discord chat for birthing the cocksandjoggers fest and to [aibidil](http://aibidil.livejournal.com) and [frnklymrshnkly](http://frnklymrshnkly.livejournal.com) for looking this over for me and helping to pull it together!

The first time he sees Potter wearing them, it’s just gone one in the morning and Draco has _had it_ with his day.

The small eighth year common room—an Expanded empty staff apartment, now housing the fifteen students who’ve returned to Hogwarts—is completely empty, save for Draco. He hears the hoot of an owl in the distance. There’s a mostly empty teacup on the table next to him and a fire still going in the hearth. Draco had to add more logs when Granger finally closed her books and went off to bed nearly two hours ago. He’s the last one standing, so to speak.

The common room the eighth years have been assigned to is nothing like the Slytherin dungeons, filled with muted oil lamps and murky green light from the lake. Draco’s still not used to the new quarters and it’s already the second week into term. There’s too much natural light in the mornings when the sun comes over the horizon; his new dorm room faces it and he’s dragged from sleep at the obscenely early hour the dawn light filters in.

Draco’s been folded up in a lumpy armchair, reading the Defense textbook in a vain attempt to revise for the scheduled exam the following day. He feels as if he is about to go cross-eyed from reading the small print. The latest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is a complete nightmare; he’d picked up on Draco’s dislike of the subject within the first ten minutes of his class and had apparently decided to push Draco to strive for better from that moment on.

Draco’s absolute shit at Defense. It’s always been his weakest subject, but everything about his life since May has been one bloody long exercise in subverting everything he’s known, everything that’s expected of him, in an effort to get as far away from the mistakes he’s made—the wrong choices he was forced into. He doesn’t want his legacy to be plotting Dumbledore’s demise and letting Death Eaters into the castle, doesn’t want to have more nightmares about the Mark on his arm.

So there Draco sits, his long legs cramped from being in the same position for over an hour because he is too stubborn to just go to bed.

And then Potter walks in—stumbles in, really—his hair even more of a mess than usual as he runs his hands through it to try to tame the rotten case of bedhead. He’s mostly cast in shadow; the shifting light from the fireplace is stretches across Potter’s face. He doesn’t even notice Draco at first, of course, but Draco’s focus is on him immediately. As if he has any chance at _not_ having his attention drawn to Potter, like a ruddy Mandrake taking to the dirt.

Just as it’s always been.

And then Draco takes in the rest of Potter’s appearance as he moves out of the shadows into the flickering firelight and he almost chokes on the breath of air he sucks in too quickly.

Potter doesn’t even have a shirt on. Miles of his golden, tawny skin and sparse, wiry chest hair are blatantly on display for Draco’s perusal. Draco follows the trail of hair from Potter’s flat stomach down to the drooping waistline of the soft trousers hanging low on his hips, looking for all the world as if one strong gust of wind would drop them to the ground. He doesn’t wear slippers, just a pair of chunky knit socks that have a hole in the big toe on one foot.

Draco’s mouth goes dry, and then floods with a rush of saliva as Potter drags his hand down his chest, scratching absently while he yawns. He finally realises he’s not alone in the common room. Noticing Draco at last, he freezes in place, his hand splayed over his stomach as if he could regain some semblance of propriety. It’s almost laughable, and Draco would surely be snickering if it weren’t for the fact that Potter looked so unbelievably, unfairly _hot_.

They’re both still for the span of a few heartbeats, neither speaking as they stare at one another. Draco doesn’t want to break the spell.

He has no idea where to look. Each time his eyes land on one part of Potter, they quickly dart away when he realises he’s staring into Potter’s eyes, and then at his chest, and then at what he’s pretty fucking sure is the honest-to-Merlin outline of his dick beneath the offending bottoms.

Draco feels his whole body heating up.

“Potter,” Draco says finally, his voice strained from the effort of keeping his voice level. “ _What_ in the name of Salazar-sodding-Slytherin are you _wearing_?”

Potter looks down and surveys his appearance. Draco can just make out a flush creeping up his neck.

“Er,” Potter says, eloquent as ever, “I…didn’t think anyone would be down here at this hour. I just…”

He trails off awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and makes a vague gesture at the common room with a flap of his hand.

“You just?” Draco presses, stuck between wanting to get up and leave the room and being unable to because his Defense textbook is the only protection he has to hide that he is sporting the beginnings of an enthusiastic erection caused by the simple sight of Potter without a shirt on, only wearing bloody indecent casual trousers that barely cling to his hips. “You just…thought it would be a spiffing idea to walk around the castle with barely any clothes on? I know they’re calling you our ruddy Saviour and all of that rot, but it’s just not done—I don’t care that you usually do whatever you damn well please. Go put some fucking clothes on, for Merlin’s sake.”

“What?” Potter asks, blinking.

A strange expression flits over his face for a moment, but it’s gone before Draco can fully analyze it. The expression is different from any way Potter has ever looked at him before, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“What are those?” Draco changes tactics to question Potter about the unfamiliar Muggle-wear instead.

He points at the offending bottoms and raises his eyebrows expectantly. Potter looks down at himself again and shrugs.

“Joggers,” he says simply, as if that truly answers all of Draco’s questions.

Draco eyes the waistline, the dark hairs plunging into the stretchy band, and he’s pretty certain that Potter isn’t even wearing pants under them. Another lick of heat throbs through his body at the thought.

“And _why_ do the Muggles call them that? I assume that I’m correct in surmising that this is more of your beloved Muggle attire—wizards wouldn’t be caught dead in something so…so….revealing,” he says, struggling to find the right words.

“Well, they’re normally for exercise. Like running and stuff,” Potter explains with a bewildered expression. He scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his hand up under his glasses, and yawns again. “Most people just wear them for comfort, I guess. I sleep in them now.”

“I see,” Draco says, at a loss for where to go from there.

He glances down at his lap, where the book is spread across his legs to hide his problem. Potter comes closer and makes a sound of recognition when he looks down at the page Draco has open.

“Oh, are you revising for that exam tomorrow?” He brightens, his interest apparently sparked, and Draco feels exposed and vulnerable, a tight discomfort coiling in his stomach. He has the urge to snap the book closed and rush off without a backwards glance—no matter how curious he is to see if the back side of Potter offers just as good of a view.

“Yes,” he says tersely, his fingers tensing on the edges of the textbook.

Potter tilts his head to read the page’s title for blocking spells more easily and hums under his breath. “Yeah, that one can be tricky. You have to make sure your wrist is loose and relaxed when you twist before the hooking movement during your casting.”

Potter pauses for a moment, blinking rapidly. His glasses droop down his nose, almost looking like they might drop off his face altogether.

“Er, that is…if you’re having any trouble with it,” he tacks on, coughing. “So, I’m going to go back to bed, then. Goodnight, Malfoy.”

He doesn’t wait for Draco to answer, just turns on his heel and strolls out. And blast it all, the view from the back is _just as fucking enticing_. The angles of Potter’s back shift in and out of the shadows and licks of firelight cast across the room, and the outline of his arse looks damn near edible in the joggers.

Draco sits there, breathing carefully through his nose until his body gets a grip on itself. When he’s calmed down he glances back down at the page. He bites at the corner of his lip, considering Potter’s advice. He can see how it applies in theory and, with a resigned sigh, he stands and sets the book aside. Draco takes a minute to work himself up to trying out the spell with Potter’s suggestion in mind, flapping out his hands to shake off the jitters he gets when he practices defensive spells.

He centres himself, oddly finding a calm frame of mind when he pictures Potter’s joggers, and lifts his wand. When he casts the spell with perfect ease, as skillfully as if he’s been a master of it for years, a rush of relief and joy bursts through him.

*******

Draco thinks that he will never have the privilege of seeing the joggers again, but oh no. He is dead wrong about that.

Because Potter, for some unholy reason that seems specifically designed to torture Draco, starts wearing the bloody things everywhere he goes. The days of September are plaguing Draco with glimpses of the soft grey lounge bottoms at the most inopportune times.

Potter wears them in the early mornings in the eighth year common room, flopping his body sideways into an armchair so that his legs dangle over the side while he sips at a steaming cup of tea by the window, watching the pale morning light turn bright and golden and the wisps of fog seep away.

Draco skirts by him on these mornings, trying and failing to keep his eyes to himself. He sees how roomy the joggers are, and imagines what it would be like to shove his hands down the front of Potter’s ridiculous trousers to trace his fingers over Potter’s thighs. Draco swallows thickly and darts out of the eighth year common room in pursuit of a strong cup of tea and being _anywhere else_ , as long as it’s as far away from Potter and his joggers as possible.

Potter wears them on the grounds of Hogwarts, lounging on the sun-warmed grass with his friends like they’re a litter of napping Crups, lazily dog piling on each other, always _touching_ one another. Draco swears it’s not jealousy at their easy closeness and blatant affection that burns in the pit of his stomach as he tears his gaze away from the group of them, denying even to himself that his eyes linger on the soft looking fabric encasing Potter’s legs. The light grey material contrasts nicely against the warm brown tone of Potter’s skin where his t-shirt is rucked up.

Draco thinks he’s finally escaped the horrible phenomenon of the joggers when September bleeds into October and the weather shifts into cooler temperatures.

He takes refuge in flying around the Quidditch Pitch when dealing with everything becomes too difficult. But no, Potter intrudes here as well, him and his bloody joggers have followed Draco to his favourite haven.

Potter’s already there when Draco arrives, broom in hand. The Pitch is typically empty at this hour, but Potter’s in the air, executing lazy loops that arc through the air high above the ground. It can’t be comfortable to fly in joggers—the fabric looks like it provides none of the padding and support that come from the woven-in spellwork on the standard flying uniform. But Draco can’t deny that Potter manages to make it look good, as he does most things. The joggers are stretched tight across his seat, and when he spots Draco, standing in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch with his broom in hand, he flies straight toward him. Draco gets to see the telltale way Potter’s cock is nestled beneath the joggers up close and personal when Potter hovers just in front of him, at eye level. He wonders if it’s just a trick of the fabric bunching, or if Potter really is that blessed.

Who is Draco kidding, _of course_ Potter is that blessed.

“Hey,” Potter greets him. His hair is already tousled from flying. “Are you going to fly, too?”

Draco is at a loss for words for only a beat—he considers leaving Potter alone and flying some other time—before he makes a snap decision. He needs to fly right now: a pompous Ravenclaw two years below them had caught him practicing his Patronus Charm in an empty classroom and subsequently berated him for trying. He’d told him that a worm like Draco didn’t deserve any happy memories.

Draco had seen red, bitter shame and regret stinging him as the words cut him to the quick with their ugly truth, and he’d gone straight to collect his broom.

So fuck Potter. He _needs_ to find some kind of balance right now.

“Yes, I’m here to fly,” Draco says, sharper than he intends to, but he’s not going to take back the bite in his tone.

Potter frowns before rummaging in his pocket. It makes Draco consider how spacious jogger pockets must be. He wonders if he could fit his whole hand inside of Potter’s pocket, and what he might be able to reach. “Well, I’ve got a practice Snitch. We can play a few rounds if you want.”

Draco’s determined to hold onto the anger welling in him, wants to direct it all at Potter because he’s here and it’s easy to hate him because he represents everything Draco is not and all of Draco’s failed attempts at making things right.

But Potter’s earnest expression makes Draco crumble. He lets out a shaky breath, releasing some of the pent up tension that’s seeking an outlet, and nods.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let me warm up.”

They end up flying for hours, until the sun is dipping low behind the trees in the forest and the chill is starting to bite through the Warming Charms they’ve cast. Draco doesn’t want to stop. Flying with Potter is like a soothing balm to his wounds, helping him forget, at least for a short while, that he can’t successfully cast a Patronus because none of the memories he picks work for him. Chasing after a Snitch, re-igniting the exhilarating rush of competition between them, allows Draco some of the most fun he’s had in months. It feels good to laugh again, to recapture some of the joy that filled his younger years.

Draco even wins a couple of their games, taking every opportunity to smugly rub his success in Potter’s face, and Potter takes the losses with grace. He laughs with Draco, and something soft cracks open in Draco’s heart, pouring out as he watches the fading light illuminating the wisps of Potter’s hair flying around his face, backlighting him with golden rays.

He’s so lost in staring at Potter that he misses whatever it is Potter’s said as he flies closer, his knee butting against Draco’s. He glances down at the joggers and thinks that Potter must be freezing and uncomfortable; he has no idea how long Potter was on the Pitch before Draco arrived.

“What?” he asks, dragging his eyes back up to Potter’s face.

“We should probably head in,” Potter repeats.

Potter’s shivering slightly, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. He suddenly looks so much younger and it hits Draco like a Bludger that they’re only eighteen, even if they’ve already seen and done unspeakable things.

“Yeah,” Draco agrees belatedly, clearing his throat. He fishes his wand out of the buckled holster he wears for casual flying and casts another Warming Charm for Potter without asking.

“Thanks,” Potter says, and when he smiles his eyes crinkle at the corners. Draco’s heart thuds in his chest.

“Don’t mention it,” Draco says, already pointing the nose of his broom towards the ground and dropping into a slow, wide spiral.

Potter shoots straight towards the ground and pulls up at the last second, leaping from his broom like the reckless wanker that he is. Draco presses his lips together in a thin line and takes extra long to land, just to spite him.

Potter hefts his broom over his shoulder, and Draco licks his lips at the sight of him: semi-baggy joggers perpetually perched low on his hips, a green jumper with a golden ‘H’, and his broom bristles sticking up into the air. He looks effortless and bloody fucking sexy. Draco almost wants to throw caution to the wind, tackle him to the ground, and rub his cheek against the fabric covering Potter’s groin. Draco forces himself to look away, biting hard on his lip to calm his libido.

As they fall into step beside one another on their way back to the castle, Draco casts a sideways glance at Potter’s attire. “Those can’t be very practical to fly in.”

“Yeah, not really,” Potter admits, laughing. “I couldn’t be bothered to go change before I went to fly, though. I just needed to clear my head.”

Draco hums in acknowledgement, not offering up that he had gone for the same reason.

Potter’s shoulder bumps into his when they walk too closely together, and Draco’s hand inadvertently brushes against the joggers. They’re even softer than they look. Draco snatches his hand back into his space.

“Watch yourself, Potter,” Draco mutters.

He quickens his pace to pull ahead of Potter, needing to get away from him before Potter notices the tinge of pink Draco can feel blooming in his cheeks; for fuck’s sake he is like a sodding, soft-hearted Hufflepuff after their first kiss and all he’s done is touch Potter’s hip.

Potter stops him from getting far with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Malfoy. Wait,” Potter says. His hand is warm, and it’s not helping Draco’s blush.

“What is it, Potter?”

“Er, well,” Potter says haltingly. “The thing is…well, it’s just—”

“Spit it out,” Draco says, sighing and looking towards the castle. Candles are lighting the numerous windows as the sky darkens to twilight.

“Okay, don’t get mad,” Potter starts again. “I saw you.”

“You saw me?” Draco repeats flatly. His heart rate kicks up; his mind immediately lands on Potter realising that Draco’s been furtively admiring his arse in the joggers he wears.

“Yeah, er…I saw you working on your spells for Defense,” Potter explains. The relief Draco feels is paramount, until he registers what Potter is saying. His hackles rise.

“ _And_? This is a school, Potter, or did you forget? It’s not out of the question for students to spend time practicing what they’ve learned,” Draco spits.

“Right,” Potter says, his hand flying up in a placating gesture. He jostles the broom and adjusts his grip. “The thing is…I’m rather good at Defense. So I was just thinking—”

Draco has the childish, vicious urge to cut him off with a scathing remark about minding himself, thinking is dangerous, but he refrains.

“—that I might help you out,” Potter finishes, and sod it all, the earnest expression is back in full force. Draco swallows past the lump in his throat. “If you’d like?”

“I,” Draco says, and stops, because he has no idea how to respond to Potter’s offer. He feels hot and raw all over.

He thinks again of what the Ravenclaw student said to him in the empty classroom, in front of walls still cracked from spells fired in the Battle, and he realises his decision is made before he can even consider it.

“Fine,” Draco agrees, surprising himself. It’s worth it for the way Potter’s expression brightens.

“Brilliant,” he says, clapping Draco on the shoulder like they’ve been mates from the start, as if they both hadn’t tried to kill each other. “Classroom three on the second floor is usually free on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Meet up there after dinner?”

Draco pretends to mull this over, just to give himself a moment to breathe, but in the end he nods in agreement. “Eight o’clock, then.”

“Eight,” Potter repeats, and Draco swears that the smile Potter shoots him is a shy one.

They walk the rest of the way to the common room in relative silence, and once they return Potter breaks away to sit by the hearth with Longbottom.

Draco goes straight to the dorm room he shares with two Hufflepuffs and Blaise and flops face first onto his bed without an ounce of grace.

*******

And so they meet up, twice a week after dinner in the Great Hall. Some nights they end up leaving dinner together, and on others they see which of them can beat the other to their meeting room.

Draco begins to hear whispers about what he and Potter get up to, about them leaving dinner side by side. Granger wrings her hands in the common room as she talks to Potter, but, to Draco’s surprise, it’s Weasley who lays a hand on her arm and vouches for Draco, telling her that he’s harmless. Draco doesn’t know that he agrees with the Weasel’s assessment of him, but it’s true that he no longer wants to destroy Potter; maybe he never really did.

The practice sessions are rocky at first, with Draco getting frustrated with Potter’s teaching style and Potter trying to barge into his personal space to show him the proper hold on his wand, as if he wasn’t a pureblood who learned to hold a bloody wand before he could even walk.

Draco nearly gives up on the lessons, but Potter draws him back in again and again; he’s unable to fight against the tide that tugs him under whenever Potter is nearby.

At some point, Draco’s spells begin to work and his technique improves, marginally. Potter is ready to celebrate, but Draco points out that he’s nowhere near the level he should be for the educational equivalent of a seventh year. He hates himself for it when Potter sags, deflated.

And on top of it all, more often than not, Potter wears the bloody joggers that distract Draco to no end. When Potter manages to get close enough while Draco holds his wand arm aloft, aiming at a makeshift target Potter has Transfigured for him, Draco can almost feel what it would be like for Potter to press his jogger-clad cock against his arse. It makes him lose his concentration and causes his spell to skew wide, missing the target completely.

“I think I might want to teach,” Potter admits out of the blue, two weeks into their sessions.

Draco fumbles his footing and winces when he blasts the corner of the blackboard off instead of the dummy he’s meant to be aiming for.

“Sorry?” Draco doesn’t really know what to say to Potter.

He’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s not even watching Draco. He’s looking somewhere into the middle distance, his green eyes clouded over in thought. He looks so unsure and young that Draco is struck with the desire to rush across the room and wrap his arms around Potter, just to hug him and feel connected. He isn’t sure how well that would go over.

Potter meets his gaze and blinks, and for a moment Draco sees so much grief in the depths of those green eyes. It’s enough to make his heart lurch.

“I know everyone thinks I’m going to go for Auror after N.E.W.T.s, but…I don’t know.” Potter sighs raggedly, tipping his head back against the wall. “I thought it’s what I wanted.”

“What changed for you?” Draco asks cautiously.

He shoots a glance at the lumpy, passably Transfigured dummy, and turns to face Potter fully. Something about this moment feels important, and Draco gives his full attention to it.

Potter closes his eyes and inhales through his nose, letting his breath out through his parted lips. Draco wonders what it would be like to stand before him and gently trace those lips with his fingertips, just barely touching Potter’s bronze skin.

When Potter opens his eyes again, Draco can see determination that’s all too familiar. He recognises the same drive in himself from when he came back to Hogwarts and promised himself that he wouldn’t be remembered for his past.

“I think it’s just too much to think of some of the people I’ve lost,” he says quietly, his voice wobbling over the last word. He clears his throat and rubs at his forehead. “I know the Ministry needs fresh Aurors right now; they’ve even sent me a sodding official letter to tell me there’s a spot waiting for me once I’m finished here.”

Potter shakes his head and laughs, a bitter, disbelieving bark that Draco never wants to hear come from his mouth ever again. “I like helping you, though,” he says, his expression softening, the tense lines in his face smoothing out. “So, I was thinking about asking McGonagall what I would need to do to become a professor. Maybe not at Hogwarts. Or maybe not right now…I don’t know. Someday it could be nice.”

Draco pictures Potter as a professor and an uncomfortable lump forms in his throat. He can see it easily; how Potter would take his tea in the mornings by the window, a healthy beard making him look cozier than the jumpers he’d wrap himself in. He imagines how Potter would be with his students, taking care to sort out their needs and encourage them; how he’d look in the evening, with a fire crackling and the warmth in his smile. Most of all, Draco sees the laughter lines that would frame Potter’s face, formed from smiling with his classes and spending time with his friends.

And suddenly, Draco _wants_ that for Potter, wants him to achieve that life and never have to deal with facing off against Dark wizards ever again. The realisation makes his breath gust out of him on a whoosh; he nearly staggers.

“Are you alright?” Potter asks, more subdued than he normally is.

“Yes,” Draco says, his eyes darting away to gather his composure. “Of course.”

Draco clears his throat and crosses the room to lean against a desk near where Potter stands. “I think you should do it.”

“Hmm?” Potter turns to him, distracted and lost in his thoughts once more.

“Teaching. Fuck what anyone else expects of you,” Draco says, and he’s surprised by how fiercely he voices the sentiment. “If it’s what you want to do, what will make you happy, then you should hold onto that and never let it go.”

Potter looks surprised, as if he didn’t expect Draco to agree with him. Draco wonders if perhaps Potter admitted it to him so that Draco would talk him out of it. He smiles, soft and open and, Merlin, Draco wants to kiss him. He has no idea when it really started, but somewhere between the start of term and gaining Potter’s help, he’s begun developing feelings for him.

“Thank you,” Potter murmurs. “I haven’t told anyone else yet.”

This surprises Draco even more than the fact that Potter is considering a career in teaching. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I just didn’t know how to say it,” Potter says. “Hermione’s been going back and forth between signing up for the Auror Training Academy and working elsewhere in the Ministry. She wants to work on reforms to help bring more positive changes to the wizarding community, and to mend the relations between other magical beings and wizards.”

“And then there’s Neville, too. He’s always banging on about joining up,” he continues. “Wants to do his parents proud.”

Draco snorts and tosses his head. “I would’ve expected Longbottom to end up as the professor and you to follow through on the Auror track.”

Potter tilts his head and shrugs. “But you just said fuck expectations.”

“I did say that,” Draco agrees. “You should talk to your friends about what you want. I’m sure they’ll be supportive. Now, are you going to help me figure out the subtleties of performing this Blasting Curse, or not?”

“Right,” Potter says, coming away from the wall where he was leaning in a fluid gesture. “Your form was spot on, right up until you shot at the blackboard instead of the dummy.”

Draco rolls his eyes and takes up a dueling stance again. “Yes, well…that’s what happens when you distract someone with your deepest, darkest desires.”

“You have to keep your focus in a duel, no matter what,” Potter corrects, his voice coming up behind Draco. His hand presses gently on Draco’s arm to adjust the height. “And trust me,” he murmurs, making Draco shiver involuntarily as his breath ghosts across the back of Draco’s neck, “those aren’t my deepest desires.”

For a moment, Draco thinks Potter might do something, like spin him around to make a grand gesture, but the moment passes and Potter encourages him to try the spell again. When he hits his mark, Potter’s palm is warm against his shoulder as he congratulates him.

“You’re really improving,” Potter praises. “You’re going to do brilliantly on the next exam.”

Draco tries not to let it happen, but Potter’s words stoke the fires of his pride, anyway.

*******

Draco can barely focus on his revisions for the next scheduled exam.

Though he’s pleased to see an improvement in his marks since the meetings with Potter began, it’s not enough. Draco still isn’t able to cast a Patronus, and he’s starting to worry that he’ll never manage one. There’s a part of him, one he’s afraid to look at too closely, that thinks it’s because he’s been around so much Dark magic that he won’t be able to cast Light magic.

They’ve been in classroom three for almost an hour, and Draco hasn’t absorbed a single page of his extensive theoretical notes.

For the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes, his eyes slide over to Potter. He’s standing against the desk in front of where Draco is sitting, his jogger-clad cock right in his line of sight. And it’s right fucking there, isn’t it? Draco can see the ridge of it.

He’s thought of how big Potter’s cock actually is so many times since they’ve begun their meetings, imagined making a move on Potter time after time while they’ve occupied classroom three.

Draco frowns and refocuses on the notes spread before him. He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache threatening to bloom behind his left eye.

“I was hoping with all of the help I’ve been giving you that you wouldn’t look like the revisions are going to kill you before you even reach the exam,” Potter says lightly, shifting in the corner of Draco’s peripheral vision to sit on the desk he’s been leaning on. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t presume to be able to read me,” Draco says wearily. He’s at his wit’s end.

He can hear the cranky bite in his voice, and he always regrets the way it makes Potter wilt, pouting. Draco hates to cut off any of the connection they’ve managed to build since spending more time together.

He’s being so maudlin, and it’s affecting the time he’s starting to look forward to the most—when he gets to be close to Potter.

The root of Draco’s problem isn’t even the joggers. The real problem is that his feelings have grown, like a vine unfurling to reach out for the sunshine. Being around Potter so often just makes Draco want to touch and kiss him.

He toys with his lower lip, dragging his teeth back and forth over it. The words he’s looking at blur together. He’s going to have to do something about these emotions he’s grappling with, otherwise he knows he’ll just fail at another attempt to change himself for the better, to grow into a man instead of remaining a weak and cowardly boy.

After all, one of Draco’s greatest desires has been to earn Potter’s friendship. And now he has it, but it’s not enough. Now he wants _more_.

*******

“I’m sick and tired of seeing you in the same pair of sodding joggers all the time, Potter,” Draco barks at the beginning of their fourth week of meeting up.

November is just creeping into December, and Hogwarts is too cold for it to be practical for Potter to still wear the offending, enticing trousers around. Plus, they’re detrimental to Draco’s health.

“I swear, you’ve worn them to the point of being threadbare,” Draco complains.

Potter only laughs at him from where he’s standing opposite, a short distance away. They’re meant to be dueling each other so Draco can practice against an actual opponent that fires back. He’s bent over, hands on his knees, his laughter echoing in the room.

“Sorry,” Potter apologises at last, struggling to catch his breath. “You just get so narked off about them, and I already told you: they’re just comfortable, alright?”

“I don’t know why I hang out with you,” Draco grumbles, crossing his arms.

“You love it,” Potter says, peeking up at him through his lashes. He’s grinning mischievously, looking charming and fit.

Draco feels the prickle of heat and spins away. “I bloody well do not, you utter shit.”

“Admit it,” Potter says, and Draco can hear him striding over. He grips his arms tightly.

When Potter stops behind him Draco stills; each fibre of his body is attuned to Potter, ready to sway towards him at a moment’s notice.

“Listen, I bet if you tried them you’d actually like them and see why I wear them so much,” Potter says. “I bet I can get you to change your mind. They’re much more enjoyable than robes.”

Draco whirls around to face him, jabbing his finger into Potter’s chest. “I’m not going to sink so low, Potter. You’ll never get me to put on your Muggle trousers and faff about in them. They’re indecent, is what they are.”

“If you try them, I’ll make sure you can cast a corporeal Patronus,” Potter offers, his face set into a stubborn expression.

A multitude of feelings spiral through Draco, and he has trouble pinpointing them all. He meets Potter’s bullheaded look with a mulish one of his own.

“That doesn’t seem like a very fair bargain, Potter,” Draco says. “You’re already meant to be helping me improve my defensive magic. It’s rather shit of you to try to use specific magic for leverage just so you can see my arse in revealing Muggle loungewear.”

Potter shrugs, unapologetic. “If it works to motivate you, then I don’t see the problem in using whatever tactics necessary.”

Draco gapes. He was expecting Potter to get flustered at Draco’s accusation. “That’s…surprisingly un-Gryffindor of you, Potter.”

Potter’s answering grin has an edge to it that Draco recognises from the expressions of his Slytherin peers. “There were other houses I could’ve been Sorted into.”

That’s news to Draco, though he isn’t as shocked as he once would’ve been. He snorts and twirls his wand between his fingertips. “Please, Potter. You’re about as Gryffindor as they come: nauseatingly noble and brave.”

“Not always,” Potter says and Draco almost misses the way his eyes quickly run over Draco’s body. Draco raises an eyebrow at him and falls back into a dueling stance.

“Let’s duel. If I win, we’ll move onto the Patronus Charm. If you win,” Draco pauses and waits until he catches Potter’s eye. He lets his lips quirk into a smirk. “I’ll try your joggers.”

Potter lights up, his body naturally assuming a dueling pose. He exudes confidence, looking sure that he’ll win with ease. “You’re on.”

They volley spells back and forth, getting far too invested for a practice duel. Draco’s dodging Potter’s hexes with more than just _Protego_ , diving out of the way and flinging his body aside until he’s cleared a spell by inches. Draco can smell the static of the spells as they glance by him. Despite Potter’s experience, Draco manages to keep him on the ropes, thanks to Potter’s tips during their training meetings. He resorts to dirty tricks a few times, just to gain any advantage he can over Potter.

Draco is covered in dust from rolling around on the floor under desks in his attempts to outmaneuver Potter. He swears loudly when his own trousers make it difficult to shift out of the way, constricting his movements, while Potter is able to lunge with ease in his joggers, the stretchy material allowing him more flexibility and agility.

Draco’s panting, his energy flagging and Potter is still throwing spells at him. Finally, Draco makes the mistake of dodging left instead of right and ends up running right into Potter’s Body-Bind Curse.

Draco loses the duel with poor grace.

“Un-fucking-believable!” he spits when Potter releases him from the Body-Bind with a smug expression. “You cheated.”

“Me?” Potter laughs. “ _Me_ cheating? That’s a laugh, Malfoy, you dirty little bugger. You threw a handful of dust in my face. I’ve won our duel fair and square; it’s not my fault you miscalculated which way I was going to cast.”

“You faked me out,” Draco complains, his voice growing petulant.

“Don’t whinge,” Potter chides and pats his shoulder with a comforting hand. “You’re going to feel silly once you put them on, you know. It’ll actually feel like you’ve won. So, it’s like we’re both winning.”

Draco rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe you.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Potter says, shaking his head as he shucks off his trousers. Draco stands up straight, alarmed.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Draco’s just barely gotten a handle on not getting hard when Potter wears the joggers; there’s no way he’ll be able to stay unaroused if Potter strips down to his pants.

“Hermione says I shouldn’t cast duplication spells on things I’m actually wearing, so,” Potter says absently as he lays his trousers on a desk. “We had a mishap once, when we were on the run last year.”

Draco can barely process what he’s saying, because Potter is standing there in snug briefs that are red and covered in little golden Snitches. They’re zinging around Potter’s bum. Draco has to dart his eyes away and stare at the wall before he embarasses himself.

“Okay, so you’ve got to put these on,” Potter says.

“I’m sorry?” Draco blurts, still facing the wall. “I don’t think so. I’ll take them to my room and wear them there, thanks.”

“What? C’mon, Malfoy, don’t be a little shit,” Potter protests. “I won, after all, and I’d like to collect on my prize.”

When he looks back, Potter’s already covered up again, wearing the duplicate pair of joggers. He beams and holds up the pair that he’d spread out on the desk—the pair he’d been _wearing_.

Draco gulps and takes the bloody joggers with a slightly trembling hand. He runs his fingers over the soft material and resigns himself to looking like an idiot.

He’s about to turn them on when he notices Potter watching. “Potter. Turn around, you knob.”

“Why?” Potter asks. “We’re both blokes, and it’s not like you’ve got to take your pants off to put those on.”

Potter leans against the desk, his palms resting on the surface and his feet planted wide to keep his balance. He looks far too eager and Draco isn’t really sure what to make of it. He raises an eyebrow and sets his jaw.

“Turn around,” Draco repeats resolutely.

Potter heaves a great sigh and turns his back to give Draco privacy. Draco frowns at the lump of material in his hands and quickly changes out of his trousers and into Potter’s. And, yeah, Draco has to admit that the joggers are actually comfortable, more so than he’d expected them to be.

“Happy now?” Draco spreads his arms wide and when Potter looks, he snorts. “I bet I look ridiculous.”

“It’s definitely…a look on you, Malfoy,” Potter says with an impossibly wide smile, clearly highly amused. His gaze travels up and down Draco’s body twice, lingering over his lower half.

Draco feels completely stupid with his shirt awkwardly tucked into the waistband of the joggers.

“Well, this is what you wanted,” Draco says. He considers the joggers as he walks around the room in them, trying desperately to ignore the fact that he’s wearing _Potter’s_ pair, the very same ones that have been driving him mad.

Draco catches the rapt way Potter is tracking all of his movements, and it occurs to him suddenly that he has been a blind fool this whole time. When he recalls the times that Potter has looked at him, said things that could even be considered flirting, he realises that if he’d been paying close enough attention, it would have clicked before. He can’t believe it’s taken him so long to realise it.

Potter _likes_ him.

Arriving at that conclusion gives Draco the boost of confidence he needs.

“What’s that thing your face is doing, Potter? Are you well?” Draco taunts airily as he subtly sticks his arse out in a way that makes the material of the joggers pull taut over it. He’s treated to Potter’s sharp intake of breath as his eyes dart down to stare at Draco’s bum.

“Huh?” Draco nearly chokes on a laugh at Potter’s lack of coherence. He feels a tingling warmth at the effect he’s having on Potter.

Draco strolls up to Potter, channeling confidence that is usually reserved for Potter and not himself. He takes a risk that could get him punched if he’s wrong about his hunch and kneels between Potter’s legs, palms splayed on Potter’s thighs as Draco looks up at him with a sultry expression.

Potter can’t even speak, his eyes growing wide and his eyebrows creeping up on his forehead.

“Is this what you had in mind when you thought about me wearing your joggers?” Draco murmurs.

Potter makes a sound that’s almost a whine in the back of his throat. He swallows and Draco watches the way his Adam’s Apple bobs. “I—maybe. Something like this, yeah.”

Draco strokes his thumbs back and forth, feeling the material beneath his hands and Potter’s stomach sucks in on a shudder. Draco glances back up at him through his lashes. “Do you know how crazy you’ve been driving me since you started talking to me?”

“Yeah?” Potter answers, breathless. He shifts so that his palms grip the edge of the desk. “You too,” he adds after a beat. “Drive me spare, that is. I can’t get you out of my head.”

Hearing that Potter’s been thinking about him makes warmth bloom in Draco’s chest. He squeezes Potter’s thighs and slides his palms up higher, delighting in the way Potter’s eyelids flutter closed for a moment before blinking open again, his eyes bright and iridescent.

Potter carefully reaches a hand out to brush through Draco’s hair, his fingertips tracing down his neck and over his jaw. Draco’s breath shudders out of him and he turns to press his lips to Potter’s fingers. Potter’s gaze drinks Draco in hungrily, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of this thing building between them.

“Will you let me…” Draco trails off and gives in to the urge that’s been haunting him. He presses his cheek right over Potter’s lap and squeezes his thighs again.

“Holy shit,” Potter whispers. He clears his throat and speaks up, his hand grazing over the back of Draco’s head. “Yes, Malfoy. Anything. Anything you want to do. Let’s...yeah. Let’s do it.”

Only, Draco’s never done this sort of thing before. His only sexual experience is shyly kissing a handful of Slytherins during school, and a heated snog and tug with a stranger just before returning to Hogwarts for eighth year. He’s too prideful to ask whether Potter shares his inexperience, or if he’s ever been with another boy.

He can feel Potter swelling beneath his cheek, and Draco is surprised it it took him so long. Draco’s been hard since he dropped between Potter’s knees. Draco turns his head and drags his mouth over Potter’s cock as it fills out and tents the thin fabric of the joggers. Potter’s knuckles go white where he grips the edge of the desk and he whimpers when Draco glances up at him before closing his lips around the tented tip. Draco mouths at Potter’s erection, teasingly suckling the head through the joggers and angling his head to rub his lips over the length of it.

“Fucking hell, Malfoy,” Potter mumbles. And as if a dam is breaking, Potter’s hands are all over him, stroking around where his lips stretch over the end of Potter’s dick and gripping his hair when he runs his fingers through the strands again.

Draco brings his hands up to fondle Potter through the joggers, trailing his fingers away until Potter grunts and grabs his wrist to bring his hand back again. Draco looks up and Potter meets his gaze, flattening his warm palm over Draco’s and pressing it harder against his prick.

“Please,” he says, his voice rasping as if he’s been chain smoking Gillyweed.

How can Draco refuse him when he begs so nicely?

Draco drags his tongue across the lap of Potter’s joggers, sucking and rubbing at Potter’s dick until he’s made a wet spot on the front, warm and damp. Draco can feel Potter throbbing through the material and it makes him chuckle quietly with his lips stretched around his prick.

“Come up here,” Potter says urgently, tugging at Draco until he’s pulled him up from the floor. “I have to—”

He breaks off, his hands flurrying over Draco, stroking down his back to palm at his arse and cupping his jaw before he leans in and kisses Draco. He moves to cup Draco through the joggers he’s wearing and Draco moans into his mouth when Potter touches his aching cock. Potter presses his tongue into Draco’s mouth and kisses him with all of the pent up passion that’s been boiling beneath the surface.

Draco almost sags against him. He ruts against Potter’s palm and nudges Potter’s knees apart without breaking the kiss. He moves back into Potter’s space and runs his hands down Potter’s chest and over his hips, tugging him forward so that their erections slide together, only the thin fabric of the joggers separating them. They both make broken sounds of relief and pleasure as they fall into a rhythm, their lips reconnecting and their tongues sliding together.

Even though Draco’s sure it would feel better with nothing between them, he can’t help but feel like rubbing against Potter while wearing the bloody joggers is a holy experience—or maybe it’s just that he’s getting off with Potter.

Potter rolls his hips against his, and Draco’s head tips back; he cries out when Potter closes his lips over his neck, sucking and kissing every inch of his pale skin that he can reach. Draco worms a hand out of their embrace to hold the back of Potter’s head against his neck, shuddering when Potter tortures a sensitive spot.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco babbles, feeling words pour out of him when Potter’s teeth graze his skin. “More, please. Just—”

Potter tears away from his neck with a rough sound and recaptures Draco’s lips, melding their mouths together. Both of them are panting heavily as their hips rock together, rubbing their cocks alongside one another. Draco can feel the damp spot of Potter’s trousers against his own.

Draco’s vision feels like it’s blurring around the edges and he reluctantly pulls back, stumbling away gasping for air. Potter’s got his fingers pressed to his plump lips, his green eyes wide. His dark hair is flopping over his forehead and his cock is tenting his joggers obscenely. He looks _wrecked_. And Draco wants to destroy him further, wants to hear how he sounds when he comes.

“I’m going to suck you,” he declares, ignoring the fact that he’s never given a blowjob in his life.

Potter seems to take a minute to register what Draco’s said, but when he does he perks up, looking eager, his bronze cheeks tingeing darker with his flush. “Yeah? Brilliant.”

Draco ignores the glimmer of self doubt, shoving it aside. He’ll wing this and he’ll make sure Potter loves it.

In his impatience, Draco falls to his knees again, wincing as they crash harshly against the flagstone—he’ll have bruises, he’s sure—and brings his mouth back over Potter’s cock. He sucks at it, relishing the broken sounds Potter makes. He likes the easy access he has with the joggers; he tugs at the elastic waistband when he sits back on his heels and shoves his hands down the front of Potter’s bottoms, just like he’s been wanting to do.

Draco works them down Potter’s legs, glad in that moment that he doesn’t have to undo any clasps or buttons. He runs his hands back up Potter’s brown legs, covered in dark hair, and hooks his fingers in the Snitch-covered pants, pulling those off in one swift movement, too.

And then Potter is gloriously naked, his ruddy cock angling toward him. He’s right; Potter’s prick is fucking huge. Draco licks his lips and glances up at Potter, who nods at him, biting his lip. Potter looks so worked up, and Draco thinks he won’t last very long.

Draco’s not sure he can, either, if he’s being honest with himself. He absently squeezes himself through his trousers and sways on his knees.

“Christ,” Potter blurts. “Do you think…” Potter pauses and licks his lips, his expression shy and coy. “Could you wank while you suck me off?”

Heat throbs through Draco and he has to press his forehead against Potter’s hip to steady himself.

“I think I can manage that,” Draco says when he feels enough control to keep from coming without being touched at all. “Are you ready?”

“I’m about to burst,” Potter says in a rush. He circles his hand around the base of his cock and holds himself, pointing the glistening tip of his cock towards Draco’s mouth. “And if you don’t do something in the next two seconds, I’m pretty sure I’m just going to come on your face.”

Draco’s eyes go wide as his cock throbs in his pants. Merlin, he wants that—so badly—but he also really wants to taste Potter on his tongue. He meets Potter’s desperate eyes and wastes no more time, opening his mouth wide and closing his lips around the heat of Potter’s huge cock.

The sound Potter makes when Draco’s mouth is finally on his dick makes Draco swell with pride. He moves his tongue over the velvety soft skin, tasting the saltiness. He likes the weight of it on his tongue. Draco takes him deeper, sinking his stretched lips over Potter until his jaw starts to ache. He goes further still, and gags when the tip pushes to the back of his throat. He’s not even halfway down the length.

He snakes his own hand under the waistband of the joggers and down his pants, tugging at his erection. He closes his eyes and exhales, trying to focus on making Potter feel good while he touches himself.

It’s difficult to remember to move his tongue, mind his teeth, keep from gagging, and navigate breathing, but Draco figures out a rhythm that has Potter swearing under his breath. Potter’s hand is carefully cupped over the back of his neck, squeezing gently when Draco sucks particularly hard.

Draco’s hand moves quickly over his cock. He has no self control, Potter’s kisses have caused it all to melt out of his body. He squeezes his cock and works his foreskin over his weeping tip.

“Your mouth, Malfoy,” Potter groans, his hips bucking and nearly making Draco choke on his length. “Jesus.”

Draco’s orgasm lances through him suddenly while he’s slurping at Potter’s spongy crown and he nearly impales his mouth on Potter’s cock. Draco’s coming into his hand and his body trembles with the force of it.

Draco hums and whimpers around his mouthful. Potter hunches over and makes another beautifully ragged sound. “Fuck, I’m going to come—I can’t last.”

Draco sucks harder, managing to flutter his tongue against Potter’s cock and he can feel the way it throbs in his mouth before a sudden flood of bitter come spills onto his tongue in spurts. Draco tries to swallow, but he splutters and his mouth pops off. He can feel a splash of Potter’s come hitting his lip and chin and he brings his fingers up to wipe them away, staring up at Potter with wide eyes.

They’re both short of breath, gasping and shaking from their releases. Potter recovers first, running a hand through his hair. He holds a hand out and helps Draco stand. There’s a wet spot staining the front of Draco’s joggers, and the sight of it makes Potter smile.

“That was amazing,” Potter says, and the softness in his tone wraps around Draco, pulling him deeper into the tide dragging him under.

Draco hums in agreement and looks around for his wand. Before he can find it, magic flutters over him and Draco feels clean again. He glances at Potter, who doesn’t have his wand either. “Thanks.”

Potter’s practically vibrating with joy. He steps close to Draco and traces his lower lip. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Draco says. He feels languid in the wake of a brilliant orgasm and he just wants to lean his head on Potter’s shoulder. “What now? You got your prize: I wore the joggers.”

Draco plucks at his trouser leg and tips a pointed look in Potter’s direction.

“And then some,” Potter says with a charmingly shy smile. Standing this close, Draco can see faint freckles across his nose; they make his stomach flip over with a pleasant whoosh. He wants to map them with his fingers, and then with his lips.

“I have to go,” Potter says, sounding reluctant. “I promised Ron I’d meet up with him. But I’ll see you later on?”

Draco doesn’t want him to go, so he steals another slow kiss, wondering if Potter can taste himself on Draco’s tongue. Potter leans into it, his arms wrapping around Draco and holding him close.

“We can go flying this week,” Potter mumbles against his lips before he pulls away. Draco feels utterly soppy, making plans that sound very much like a _date_ with Potter, but he still can’t help the way it makes him smile.

“Okay,” he agrees.

When they part ways, Draco leaves to return to the eighth year dormitory, feeling like he could float away as easily as if someone has cast Wingardium Leviosa on him.

*******

It’s only once Draco’s returned to his room that he begins to panic.

Being with Potter was everything he’s been dreaming of, but he has to wonder whether it was a fluke because of the joggers. _It can’t be. Potter just isn’t the kind of bloke to do that_ , he reasons with himself, only feeling marginally better.

Draco decides that he obviously has to hide Potter’s demon Muggle trousers from him, because if Draco ever sees Potter wearing them again, the temptation will be too great to push him down to the ground and cover Potter’s body with his. He doesn’t want to have to live in a world where he has to suffer the sight of Potter in the tantalising trousers without being able to immediately grab him.

Draco crawls into bed and tunes out Blaise’s snoring, stroking his chin in deep thought. He works out a plan to steal the joggers from Potter.

In the morning, Draco loiters in the hall outside of Potter’s dorm, waiting until he leaves before he sneaks in and snatches the menacing garment. He hides them in his own room and leaves for the Great Hall, smug that his plan worked.

It doesn’t even take two days before Potter realises his Muggle trousers are missing. Draco avoids looking at Potter when he can feel Potter’s eyes on him. He tries to duck through the common room without being noticed.

“Malfoy.” Potter’s spotted him and is already moving toward him. Draco thinks he’s been caught out. Potter corners Draco with a knowing look, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Have you seen my joggers around?”

“No,” Draco says shortly, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. He’ll deny any involvement in the matter of Potter’s missing trousers.

Potter smirks at him and drapes his arm across Draco’s shoulders. He’s a warm, solid weight pressed against Draco’s side. Draco licks his lips; he wants nothing more than to see Potter fall apart in his hands again, watch him lose control. He wants to make Potter his and his alone, but in order to do that he needs to make sure Potter _never_ wears joggers in public ever again.

“Are you sure?” Potter looks down at Draco’s robes as if he’s trying to figure out whether Draco’s wearing them underneath, as if Draco would dare walk out of the dorm in them. He’s got his pair hidden away in his trunk at the moment, right alongside Potter’s nicked pair.

Draco can’t return the stolen joggers now; not after what they’ve both done together while wearing them. He’s already decided those joggers are for the bedroom only—if he sees Potter wearing them anywhere else, Draco’s not going to be able to resist the temptation to tackle him to the ground and rut against him until they’re both shuddering.

As it is, Draco can’t stop thinking about what happened between them in classroom three. His lips twitch as he briefly remembers how divine it felt to rub against Potter while they wore the joggers. He’s been wearing the pair Potter gave him to bed at night ever since.

In a moment of weakness, alone in his room with the bed hangings drawn tightly, he’d let his hand sneak down beneath the stretchy waistband to cup his cock, slowly working himself over, picturing sucking Potter off again, tasting him _through_ the spit-soaked joggers.

“Don’t be preposterous, Potter,” Draco says, flushing scarlet at the memories of wanking and getting off with Potter. He shoves Potter’s arm away from his shoulders and moving toward the door. “I hope you never find them, anyway. You know how atrocious I find them.”

“Sure, Malfoy,” Potter calls after him and Draco can _hear_ the damn grin in his voice. “You’ll let me know if you see them, yeah? I’d love to have them. Again, that is. You see, I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Draco doesn’t answer him, but he does look back over his shoulder. Potter is grinning brightly and winks at him, sending Draco’s heart skipping like pebbles over a lake.

And later—when Draco notices a scrap of parchment tucked into his Defense textbook that has Potter’s sloppy scrawl printed on it, asking to meet Draco that night, even though it’s only Monday—Draco decides he’ll have to let the joggers see the light of day once more.

He smiles down at the ink-smudged parchment and runs his fingers over it. Something shifts, and he suddenly wants to try his Patronus again, having a good feeling about it for once. He looks around to make sure no one is around.

Draco takes a breath, closes his eyes, and lets his mind float through recent memories. Each one makes his smile grow. When he opens his eyes and says, “ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” a rush of magic swirls through him, down his arm, and bursts from his wand in a stream of silvery-white.

Standing before him is the most regal looking fox Draco has ever seen, and Draco’s first thought isn’t that he’s finally succeeded at finally managing his Patronus.

No, the first thing he can think is how much he wants to run and kiss Potter.

He stands there for a brief moment, admiring his Patronus before he spins on his heel and rushes from the room to go find Potter and have that kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos + Comments are ♥ | Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://carpemermaidtales.tumblr.com)!


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